Undercover
by ClumsyMooseProductions
Summary: He didn’t like undercover jobs like this—they had always been pressure-filled. There were too many unknowns; it was too hard to cover all the bases. Zemyx


**A/N:** WHAT THE HELL, KRISTINA. O.o

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Zexion strolled into the bar, scoping out the premises. It didn't look like there were many of Fat Sal's men, but one could never be overly careful—especially when dealing with a syndicate where no one knew what the boss looked like. He didn't like undercover jobs like this—they had always been pressure-filled. There were too many unknowns; it was too hard to cover all the bases.

His partner bounded in the door after him, grinning broadly as usual and waving at half the occupants, with an extra wink for the bartender. A few of the younger men waved the blonde over, trading slaps on the back and pulling another chair up to their already crowded booth.

Zexion winced, then made his way over to an empty space at the bar. Demyx didn't really understand the meaning of being 'undercover'. He never had, and he probably never would. People gravitated towards him no matter what he was doing, but on a mission like this… that would only get him in trouble.

The detective pulled a small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket, scribbling a few notes as surreptitiously as he could. A shadow fell across the lined pages as the bartender leaned over, trying to read upside-down. "Taking notes on us? What are ya, some kind of cop or something?"

Zexion stiffened—how could a simpleton bartender have guessed, just from a moment's observation?

"Hah!" The bartender snorted suddenly, then slapped his hand down on the paneled bar, laughing uproariously. "Like a pansy-ass boy like yerself would ever be a cop." He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling to himself. "Anyway, what'll it be?"

"Dry martini, on the rocks, a twist of lime." His teeth gritted, Zexion ordered the first thing that came to mind.

The huge man seated precariously on the stool next to him grunted. "And that's shaken, not stirred." His words were uttered with the worst British accent Zexion had ever heard, then accompanied with laughter almost as raucous as the bartender's had been a moment before. "Who do you think you are, some sort of James Bond wannabe?"

"No, actually, it's…" Zexion paused, trying to think of a quick cover name. Clearly he hadn't been as prepared for this mission as he'd thought—not even a decent false name to back him up? He was worse than Demyx. "Headley, Johnny Headley. It doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?"

"Not at all. I'm Sal, no last name of any account. They call me Fat Sal." The older man held out a hand, and Zexion gingerly shook it. "So, Headley, ya new in town? I haven't seen you around, and I know everyone around here."

"Yes, I am… I mean, I'm a drifter, y'know?" Zexion said, in a vain attempt to sound less like the highly educated scholar that he was and more like just another one of the lowlife scum. This job was way over his head. No one on the force even knew what Fat Sal looked like, and here the man was introducing himself with a smile.

Fat Sal nodded gravely, looking back to his drink. "I was a drifter too, once. Me and Old Tom, Blue Jack, and a few of the others, we used to… well you don't want to hear about that, now, youngster. It'd take me longer to tell you what happened than it would for me to live it over again."

Zexion nodded silently, shifting his notepad onto his lap and sketching Fat Sal as quickly as he could. He wasn't a great artist, but anything they could get on Fat Sal was a godsend.

"Hey, you, in the corner, get your ass over here!" Demyx yelled from his table, the sound of his voice jerking Zexion's concentration away from his sketch. He waved a hand irritably at the younger man, finishing his sketch as quickly as he could.

"Go on, youngster, get yourself over there." Fat Sal said, looking to Demyx's table. "You've got better things to do than listen to an old man's reminiscences." Zexion nodded at Fat Sal silently, then slid his notebook back into his pocket and walked over to join the blonde and his friends.

"Zex— uh, hey, what's up?" Demyx yelled, slurring his words slightly.

"You're drunk already."

"No 'm not…" the blonde protested, winking at Zexion. He'd pulled this one before—he'd go and act like he was shitfaced, then get whoever he was working to slip the information he needed. Zexion had heard about this one from Axel, one of Demyx's old partners.

Suddenly he had a lot more appreciation for Demyx's talents—he'd never seen him in action before, only heard about him. They'd just been assigned as partners, so they'd yet to become accustomed to each other.

"Yeah, you're drunk. I'm sorry, guys—what do you want me do with this guy?" Zexion said, pushing Demyx back down in his chair.

"Awwwh, leave 'im, he's funny when he's drunk!" A dark-haired man shouted from the back of the booth, each of his arms wrapped around a different girl's waist. A cheer of agreement came from the rest of the men, and more drinks were called for. "Gets drunk after two 'r three… poor slob!"

Demyx rolled his eyes slightly, and Zexion actually had to hold back a smile. It was actually quite amusing to watch the blonde in action—maybe he wouldn't mind these undercover missions so much in the future.

Fat Sal walked over to the table, each footstep shaking the tables and rattling the drinks. "Hey, you, Headley, you call me if you need anything—a place to crash, a job, whatever. I take care of the drifters in this town." He passed Zexion a piece of cardstock with a number written on it, then gave the slate-haired man a slap on the back that nearly killed him. "Boys, I'm off!" Sal proclaimed, exiting the bar with surprising speed for a man his size.

Demyx chose that moment to faceplant on the table, and Zexion mentally thanked the younger man. He needed to follow Fat Sal out of here and see if he could get any intel on where he was keeping himself, though the number he'd given Zexion should help the investigation a lot.

"I'm going to get him out of here, lads." Zexion proclaimed, hoisting Demyx up and wrapping one of the blonde's arms around his shoulders. Demyx's head lolled surprisingly convincingly, and he muttered something unintelligible. The two made their way out of the bar, accompanied by many farewell yells and strident laughter.

Once they got out, Zexion looked around wildly, only to see Fat Sal disappearing around the corner and into an alleyway. "Demyx, pull yourself together. We have to go after Sal."

The blonde's head jerked up. "Wait, that was Fat Sal? Seriously?"

"Yes."

Demyx took a little bit more of his own weight and stood up a little straighter, but still had his arm resting on Zexion's shoulders. "Lead the way."

"He's in the third alley, I think." The two made their way down the street with Demyx still staring at the ground and looking for all the world like a very, very drunk man.

"So how far are we following him?" Demyx's voice caught Zexion unawares, and he started slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"Have you got your gun? What happens if he doubles back? Are we going to follow him to his base? Have you called in backup?"

Zexion suddenly felt very unaccomplished. He didn't do undercover work; what was he supposed to say now?

"…or, we could just follow him." Demyx said, sounding almost comforting.

Zexion didn't respond, just steering Demyx into the alleyway. Fat Sal wasn't as far ahead as he would have expected, but he'd been joined by two tough-looking men. Who kept glancing back over their shoulders.

"Try and stick to the shadows," Demyx offered. "They won't see you, and if they do they'll just assume you're a bum."

Zexion nodded silently, moving slightly to the left. He glanced ahead at the three men, mouth falling open as he realized that they had stopped and were glancing back over their shoulders.

"Shit!" Demyx exclaimed softly, his fists clenching. "We're going to have to either get out of here or look like we're not following them."

One of the men ahead of them pulled their gun and started back, a suspicious expression on his face. "Shit, shit, shit!" Demyx said under his breath. "Zexion, how fast can you run?"

"Not that fast."

Demyx swore again, and Zexion blanched as the man got closer. He had to do something before the goon got close enough to see who they were—and especially before said goon got close enough to shoot.

He didn't have any time left.

Zexion shrugged Demyx's arm off his shoulders, pushing the blonde against the wall. He pressed his lips to Demyx's in a bizarre semblance of a kiss; the startled gasp that emerged from the blonde barely registered. The man with the gun was getting closer.

He turned to Demyx, meaning to apologize for the kiss, but he didn't have time to say anything before the blonde kissed him back. Demyx's lips were soft, softer than he would have expected, and he tasted like two things—the cheap gin of the bar they'd just left, and an almost peppermint-y sweetness that Zexion couldn't quite place.

Zexion hadn't expected for Demyx to respond well. He hadn't expected him to kiss him back, or to moan into his mouth and wrap his arms around his neck. He hadn't expected Demyx's fingers to play with his hair, nor had he expected to enjoy it as much as he did.

And he definitely hadn't expected to keep kissing Demyx long after Sal's goon had returned to the mobster's side.

"We should probably call in backup and go after them," Zexion said, pulling away after an especially deep kiss. "We're close to breaking them."

"You got more intel tonight than anyone has in years," Demyx panted. "I don't think it's going to matter if we just continue here."

Zexion merely nodded. _Fair enough._

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**A/N:** Didja catch the Gilmore Girls reference? The really huge one?


End file.
